


Atonement

by Triangulum



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Nogitsune, Pre-Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 12:07:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3119630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triangulum/pseuds/Triangulum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles makes the rounds to the most traumatic places in his life, desperately trying to feel something again. The nogitsune took that from him and at this point, he'll take monumental grief over the nothingness he's been trapped with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Atonement

Stiles isn’t a masochist. Really. He just wants to feel something again. That’s why he’s here, staring at the edge of the pool, where concrete gives way to the water. He takes a deep breath, letting the smell of chlorine seep into his lungs. He’s avoided the pool for the last year, since the kanima had trapped Derek and him for two hours. The humidity, the stink of chlorine, and the echoing hollowness of the room, all of it courses through Stiles’ veins and for the first time since the nogitsune, he feels something.

It seems silly, after everything he’s been through, to still be uncomfortable around a swimming pool. It isn’t overwhelming; there’s no threat of an imminent panic attack, but the fear crawls in, cloying and dull, but there. The memory of Derek in his arms, the other man’s bulk weighing them down, Stiles’ legs giving out, their heads slipping under the surface, and fighting his own urge to gasp for air under the water, instead desperately using the last of his energy to shove Derek up to the surface so maybe at least he can survive.

Stiles jerks back, breathing hard. Derek’s alive, he reminds himself. Derek’s alive, Stiles is alive, thanks to Scott coming through in the very last minute. Scott saved them, Scott’s the hero, and heroes shouldn’t be best friends with villains. 

Stiles leaves once the novelty of the fear starts to fade. He’s shaking as he drives home. _Good_ , he thinks. He has what he had come for. He’s still trembling when he climbs into bed an hour later. The window stays open, as he’s left it since being de-possessed. Whatever monster comes crawling in to maul him, well, he figures he deserves it. 

He goes to the mechanic next but it feels exactly the same as the pool, and he needs more, to feel something…bigger. He tries not to look too hard at the fact that the idea of losing Derek in the pool scares him as much as watching a man get crushed to death. The garage owner notices Stiles after he’s been standing in the waiting area, staring at the garage’s ground for over twenty minutes. He sees the recognition in the owner’s eyes, remembering Stiles as the boy who watched his employee die. Stiles leaves as that recognition turns to pity. He doesn’t deserve it.

Stiles stands in front of the hospital a few days later, feeling like his feet are welded to the pavement. This is worse than the first two places he went, so much worse. And that’s exactly why he has come. 

There are still scorch marks all over the parking lot from the rogue electric cable he’d sawed. The cable that had hit the water and killed people before Kira had managed to get a hold of it. The electric current that had maimed Isaac, the same Isaac who hadn’t even been able to look Stiles in the eye when telling Scott and him that he was leaving with Chris Argent because he couldn’t stay in Beacon Hills and look at the face of the thing that killed Allison. Scott had flinched at the words, but Stiles hadn’t. 

Guilt rises in his throat like bile, choking him, and wrestling a noise from his throat that’s dangerously close to a sob. He killed at least a dozen people here and injured at least fifty more, though his dad refuses to tell him the total numbers. What about the people in surgery when the power went out? On life support? Did the backup generator kick in soon enough to keep them alive?

He needs to leave right now. The familiar tightening in his chest of a panic attack comes on like a punch to the gut, his ribcage squeezes his heart and lungs until all Stiles can hear is his own rushing blood and ragged gasps for air. He can’t be here for this; if anyone sees him having a full-blown panic attack in the hospital parking lot, they’ll drag him inside for help. Well-meaning, but he can’t go in there, not where so many people were hurt because of him, not where he almost killed Melissa.

That’s what gets him moving, stumbling to his Jeep and fumbling for his keys. He struggles with getting the keys into the ignition and turning them the right way, but finally manages it and peels out of the parking lot. Driving blindly, he doesn’t think of anything but putting as much distance between him and the hospital as possible. He isn’t paying attention really, just speeding down the familiar road, forgetting why he’s been avoiding this route. The police station comes into view and Stiles barely manages not to crash. 

His brain gives up. Stiles can’t breathe, can barely see, and feels that distinctly light-headed sensation he usually gets before he passed out. His heartbeat is so fast that for a second he thinks it might stop. He thinks that might actually be best, which scares him even more. He doesn’t remember driving, doesn’t register the road become unpaved dirt, and doesn’t realize he’s deep in the Preserve. At least, not until he runs out of dirt road and has to brake hard to stop from slamming into the line of trees.

He staggers out of the Jeep, lungs burning for air, and collapses to his knees. His vision is blurred, but it isn’t from tears. Vaguely, he thinks it has to be from lack of oxygen. When he was younger and the panic attacks started, his therapist had taught him breathing exercises, breathe in for four seconds, hold for seven, out for eight. It wasn’t perfect, but it helped. Stiles doesn’t want it to help. This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? It hurts, his head, his lungs, but it’s so, so much better than the nothingness he’s been floating in for weeks.

Blackness starts creeping into the edges of his vision and he can’t remember if that’s a bad thing or not. He figures it’s better than the nonexistent sleep he’s been getting lately. At least he won’t have to watch everyone struggle to make eye contact with him, to not flinch when they see him. But he can’t stop the need to breathe and he’s gasping, feeling like he’s under the water in the pool again, fighting for air. Strong hands grab Stiles’ shoulders and he vaguely becomes aware of a voice calling his name, telling him to breathe. He jerks his eyes up to see Derek’s face in his swimming vision, those ridiculously colored eyes wide and, if Stiles didn’t know better, he’d say scared.

“Stiles,” Derek was saying desperately, like he’s been calling his name for awhile. “Stiles you need to breathe, okay? Breathe for me.”

“Derek,” Stiles hears himself say, but he sounds like he’s speaking from far away. 

“Yeah,” Derek says, looking a little relieved that Stiles has responded in some way. He takes Stiles’ hand and pulls it to him, pressing the other man’s hand to his chest. The werewolf body heat feels like it’s scorching Stiles’ skin. He hadn’t even realized he was shivering, but now that he thinks about it, he’s freezing. “Match your breaths with mine, okay? Try to breath with me.”

Derek takes a breath, holding it for seven seconds, then breathing out for eight. Just like Stiles’ therapist had taught him years ago. Stiles does as Derek told him, focusing solely on Derek, fighting the panic to breathe. It takes a few minutes before he manages to breathe normally, and when he can, he realizes he’s still staring at Derek, his hand fisted in the front of the werewolf’s shirt. He coughs and lets go, but sways when he tries to stand on his own.

“Easy,” Derek says, gently pulling Stiles up. Stiles nods and grimaces at the pain lancing through his temples.

“Thanks,” he rasps. Derek just nods and keeps looking at him, keeping his hand on Stiles’ bicep. Stiles sighs. “Look, it was just a panic attack, you can stop staring at me like I’m about to assault you.”

Derek actually looks surprised at that. “I know what a panic attack is, Stiles.”

“Yeah, the breathing thing,” Stiles says, realization dawning. “How’d you know how to do that?”

“I had a cousin who got panic attacks a lot,” Derek says, shrugging one shoulder. “I learned how to help her when I was a kid.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, thrown by the mention of Derek’s family. “Well, thanks. How’d you even know I was here?”

“Was running,” Derek says, motioning to the trees around them. “I heard your heartbeat.”

“My heart?” Stiles says, taken aback. “Not the loud, clanking jeep?”

“Your heartbeat was louder.”

“Oh,” Stiles says again. He takes a step back when he realizes Derek is still holding his arm, but doesn’t make it far before the shaking is back and the cold seeps into his skin. Derek’s back in a second, guiding him to the passenger side of his jeep. Stiles protests halfheartedly, but knows if he drives, he’ll probably end up crashing into a tree or something.

“Is your dad home?” Derek asks, climbing in to the driver’s seat and starting the car.

“No,” Stiles says. “He’s on a double because they don’t have a lot of deputies since I-“ His breath hitches when his thoughts land on the Sheriff’s station, so many dead people because he just couldn’t close the door. Where he’d almost killed Derek.

“Hey,” Derek says, reaching over and placing a hand on Stiles’ where it rests on his thigh. “Is that what triggered that panic attack?”

“Kind of,” Stiles says. “I drove by when I left the hospital.”

Derek’s gaze turns sharp, his hand tightening on Stiles’. “Why were you in the hospital? Are you okay?”

“I wasn’t inside,” Stiles says. “Just outside.”

Derek doesn’t say anything but frowns. He doesn’t take his hand away from Stiles’, and Stiles doesn’t tell him to. They drive in silence for ten minutes until Stiles notices they weren’t going towards his house. 

“Uh,” he asks. “Aren’t you taking me home?”

“No,” Derek answers. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

“You don’t have to,” Stiles mumbles. “It doesn’t matter, you can just take me home.”

“It does matter,” Derek says. “Do you really think I’d just leave you home alone after a panic attack?”

Stiles shrugs, keeping his eyes on the dashboard. He hears Derek sigh but doesn’t look up until they park in front of Derek’s loft. They don’t speak until they get inside Derek’s door when Derek tosses him a bottle of water. Derek steers Stiles to the couch. “Sit.” Stiles does. He fiddles with the label of the bottle almost unconsciously, peeling it back with his thumbs and crinkling it just to have something to do. It was easier to focus on that than Derek taking a seat next to him, the weight of the werewolf’s gaze on him. Stiles doesn’t want to look up, doesn’t want to see the fear and wariness on Derek’s face that he sees on everyone else’s.

“In the preserve, were you really worried I thought you were going to attack me?” Derek asks, finally done staring silently at Stiles.

“You all do,” Stiles says, looking up. He doesn’t mean it to sound accusatory, he really doesn’t think he has the right to, but Derek just raises his eyebrows. “Really, Derek? Come on, you’re smarter than that. Scott and Lydia can’t even look at me without flinching, Kira doesn’t know what to say so she just kind of smiles and looks away, Chris grabbed Isaac and left the damn country because of what I did, and, god, my dad looks at me-“ Stiles stops, taking in a jagged breath. He blinks fast against the stinging behind his eyes. “My dad looks at me like he doesn’t know if I’m me, like if he blinks I’ll be gone.”

“Stiles.”

“What if he’s right? Derek, what if it’s just another trick? The fucking fox is just screwing with us and it’s going to break out and come after you?” Stiles is shaking again but he doesn’t care. Derek reaches for him but he jerks away, lurching to his feet. Derek stays sitting, letting Stiles pace in small circles.

“It’s gone, Stiles,” Derek says. “I can promise you, it’s gone.”

“How can you promise me that?” Stiles asks, though it comes out like a plea.

“Why were you at the hospital?” Derek asks instead of answering.

Stiles huffs a little and says, “It was the next place on the list.”

“What list?” Derek asks, maddeningly calm. Stiles, while glad that Derek has his new composed, zen thing going on, almost wishes Derek would just scream at him, let loose like he’s sure everyone wants to do, but is too afraid. He collapses back onto the couch, suddenly feeling completely drained and exhausted. If only he’d been sleeping more. “Stiles,” Derek prods again, but he doesn’t move into Stiles’ space again, not after his last reaction.

“The pool and mechanic’s from the whole kanima thing. The hospital. The Sheriff’s station.” Stiles’ voice catches a little, but he plows on. “And Oak Creek.”

“So basically anywhere guaranteed to give you a panic attack,” Derek says and now his voice is angry. Stiles looks at him confused, but nods.

“I guess,” he says. “It wasn’t really about that.”

“Then please, Stiles, explain to me the reasoning behind you _purposefully_ seeking out places that send you spiraling into an anxiety attack so bad that your heartbeat sounded like it was about to just give up,” Derek says, some of the anger that reminds Stiles of when they first met seeping into his voice. Stiles clings to that; anger is better than the kid gloves everyone else is using with him. “Explain to me why it’s a good idea to do something so insanely stupid that I actually thought I was going to find you dying. Tell me why that’s a good idea because I’m coming up blank.”

“It’s better than nothing, Derek,” Stiles says and when did he start sounding so tired? “It’s so much better than floating around feeling nothing. It’s better than the tiptoeing everyone is doing around me and so much better than feeling like I’m just skin filled with ice cubes. It’s helping me…melt.”

Derek still looks angry, but the confusion has faded. He runs a hand through his hair, messing up what Stiles always assumed he spent hours on styling to perfection. It hits him then that Derek, out of everyone in his life, would probably know exactly what he was thinking. “And?” Derek says finally. “Did it help?”

Stiles shrugs. “I felt. It wasn’t necessarily good, but, well, it was something.” The _nothing that I don’t deserve_ went unsaid.

Derek is quiet again for a few minutes, and the anger is slowly seeping from his face, replaced with thoughtfulness and sadness. Not Stiles’ favorite look. Derek considers Stiles for a moment, like he has a thousand ways to answer but isn’t sure what to say.

“You never saw me until the loft. With your dad and the Argents,” Derek clarifies when Stiles interrupts. Stiles swallows hard at the mention of Allison. “The entire time the nogitsune was controlling you, it approached everyone else, interacted with everyone else you knew but not me.”

Stiles frowns. He’s sure that isn’t right. He had to have seen Derek but not, Derek was right. The nogitsune had planned around Derek, pretty carefully actually, until it was ready to be revealed. “Yeah,” Stiles says. “I guess. Why?”

“Did you ever wonder why?” Derek asks. Stiles shakes his head. How could he? He just realized it a second ago. “I could tell the second I saw you that it wasn’t you.”

“You could? How?”

“Kitsunes, even dark ones, leave traces. Kira’s is bright since she’s young and can’t control it, but even the older ones can’t hide it completely. And they can’t hide the scent,” Derek says.

“How come Scott didn’t notice?” Stiles asks. 

“Scott’s a true alpha, but he’s still a newly bitten wolf. He doesn’t know as much,” Derek says with a shrug. “Trust me, Stiles. It’s just you in there.”

“You’re sure?” Stiles asks, voice soft.

Derek grasps his arm and stares until Stiles meets his eyes. “I’m sure. Even without the aura and smell, I’m sure.”

Stiles tilts his head at that but doesn’t say anything. It’s gone. Derek promises it’s gone. If there’s anyone he knows won’t like to him, it’s Derek.

There’s silence for a few minutes, no sound except for the creaking of pipes in Derek’s less-than-luxury loft. Stiles plays with his fingers, picking at the nail beds, then running one nail underneath the other, and switching sides. His hands are shaking, partly from the residual adrenaline, partly because he was literal when he’d told Derek he was ice; he hasn’t been properly warm since before the nogitsune, he’s just better at hiding it now.

Derek isn’t stupid, though. His face is still serious, like he’s trying to judge if Stiles believes him or not, but he pulls the throw blanket off the back of the couch and wraps it around Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles shoots Derek a grateful look and tugs it tighter around himself. “Thanks,” he says.

Derek huffs. “You’re an idiot,” he says.

Stiles laughs, a little less hollow than earlier. “Yeah well, since when is that news to you?”

Derek’s smirk is small, barely a curling of his lips, but Stiles still notices it. “It was still a stupid thing to do,” he says.

“I have to, Derek,” Stiles says. He has no idea why, but he _needs_ Derek to understand this. “I have to do this. It’s…atonement.” Derek makes a face and Stiles barrels on. “I know I can’t actually make up for anything that happened but, this is something I can do, I can at least face it. And Oak Creek is the last on the list.”

“Allison,” Derek says. Stiles flinches so hard he almost drops the corner of his blanket and he actually has to fight down the swell of nausea. Even at her funeral, Allison’s name wasn’t said very much. Chris Argent had tried, but the loss of his sister, father, wife, and daughter seemed to have broken something in him, even if the father and sister hadn’t exactly been good people.

“I have to,” Stiles says again.

Derek sighs and runs a hand over his face. “This isn’t about you not feeling anything. This is you punishing yourself and not letting yourself feel anything but pain,” he says.

It’s like being doused in cold water, then it’s like all of the emotion Stiles has been fighting wells up in a wave of hot rage and suddenly he’s standing, yelling down at Derek. “That’s not - I’m not, Derek - god, what the fuck would you know about it? How the fuck would you have any idea what it was like and what I did?”

Derek’s face is blank and impassive but when he stands his eyes flash blue. “Really, Stiles? How would I know what it’s like to have my body used against me? To have people’s lives on my head?”

And just like that, Stiles deflates, the anger flowing out of him like he’s ruptured at the seams. He shakes his head, but Derek doesn’t stop talking. “I know exactly what it is to punish yourself for things someone else did. Do you think I slept when Laura and I left Beacon Hills? How long do you think it was before I could sleep more than five minutes without waking up screaming? And Laura, how do you think I felt, looking at her everyday and knowing she knew about Kate? She didn’t blame me, but it took years for me to believe that, and every time she looked at me, I wondered if she was seeing the faces of all the people in our family that I killed. ”

“Derek.” Stiles’ voice is thick, struggling to make words. Of course Stiles knows about Kate, but they never talk about it, or Derek’s family, not like this. Not with the raw emotion and pain. And even though it’s been years since the fire, Stiles’ heart still breaks for him. “Derek, stop, you didn’t kill them.”

Derek takes a step forward and puts his hands on Stiles’ shoulders, ducking his head a little so his eyes are locked on Stiles’. “Neither did you,” he says. 

Stiles isn’t sure why, but maintaining eye contact with Derek is way too hard, but somehow he manages for half a minute before ducking his head down. Derek squeezes Stiles’ shoulders again. 

“Come on,” Derek says, taking a step back. He takes one hand off of Stiles’ shoulder and uses the other to nudge him towards the spiral staircase.

Stiles looks at him blankly. “What?”

“You said your dad’s on an overnight,” Derek says. “You’re not driving home, you’re exhausted.”

“Derek, it’s fine, I can handle driving,” Stiles says, shifting under Derek’s gaze. He’s gotten used to not being people’s focus lately and now with all Derek’s attention, he isn’t entirely sure what to do with himself. Derek seems to decide for him and gently pushes him again toward the stairs. 

“Just go upstairs, Stiles. You know where the extra toothbrushes are,” Derek says. 

Stiles frowns and searches Derek’s face for any sign of pity or discomfort and is shocked to find none. His shoulders relax a bit as tension he didn’t know he was carrying slips away. He nods and heads upstairs, leaving Derek to whatever Derek does at night. Stiles tries not to think and he rummages in Derek’s medicine cabinet (and how amazing is it that Derek has a medicine cabinet like a grown up?) for the extra toothbrushes he started stashing there once the pack started crashing at the loft. Thinking means dragging up everything he feels for Derek, which he’s been pretty good at overlooking. Being possessed makes it easy to ignore crushes on broody werewolves. But Derek was here. Derek has followed the sound of Stiles’ heart (he tries not to make cheesy, clichéd noise at that) in the middle of the woods. Derek hasn’t looked at him any differently since the nogitsune, except with, Stiles thinks, maybe concern?

Stiles finishes brushing his teeth, spits, and looks up. He’s avoided looking in mirrors as much as possible for months and is actually a bit shocked at his reflection. There are dark bags under his eyes, not nearly as bad as when he was possessed, but definitely still noticeable. His cheeks are pale and sunken in like he hasn’t been eating enough, which is true and totally beside the point. He catalogues every inch of his face, focusing on everything except for his eyes until he really can’t avoid it anymore. With a shaky breath, he looks up and almost collapses in relief. He’s been convinced that he wouldn’t see himself, but the nogitune smirking back at him, that it was just waiting until his guard was down to make its appearance and spring back in with sharp teeth and blood. But there’s nothing but his own eyes staring back at him.

Derek knocks on the door and even though it’s quiet, Stiles still jumps. Derek opens the door a bit and silently passes Stiles a pair of worn and soft sweat and a henley. Stiles thanks him and changes quickly, letting his jeans drop into a pool around his ankles. The cuffs are muddy and soggy, dampness seeping all the way up to the knees. He hasn’t even noticed until he slips on the sweats and is suddenly blessedly dry and warm. He’s grateful for the henley, too, since his tee shirt and flannel are covered in dirt from his panic attack on the ground in the Preserve. He’s actually a little surprised that Derek let him sit on the couch at all.

Derek’s waiting for him outside the bathroom. Stiles jumps with a high-pitched squeak and Derek smirks. “There’s the creeper we know and love,” Stiles mutters, but Derek just rolls him eyes. 

“Bed,” Derek says firmly, steering Stiles across the hall and into his bedroom.

Stiles’ heart stutters a little. This is Derek’s room, his inner sanctuary. It isn’t that he forbade the pack from coming in here, he just avoids it if at all possible. There’s even a room downstairs specifically for injured pack members so he doesn’t get the smell of blood in his room. After what he’s been through, Stiles doesn’t blame him one bit.

Derek realizes Stiles has stopped behind him in the doorway and turns, eyebrows raised in question. Yes, Stiles is fluid in the language of Derek’s eyebrows. 

“This is your room,” Stiles blurts out, then wants to kick himself. Derek has this look on his face like ‘duh’.

“Yes, it is,” he says, the last word lilted up like a question.

Stiles keeps looking at him, a little baffled. “It’s your _room_ ,” Stiles says again.

“ _Yes_ ,” Derek says, brows furrowed in confusion. 

“It’s...I don’t…I don’t want to invade your space,” Stiles mumbles, fiddling with the sleeves of his shirt. 

Derek’s face clears and it almost hurts something in Stiles to see someone looking at him like that, soft and, he thinks maybe, fond. It’s too much and Stiles ducks his head.

“Stiles,” Derek says, taking a step forward, his bare feet making their way into Stiles’ vision and Derek goes _barefoot_ and it almost makes Stiles’ brain overload. Derek lifts a hand and shockingly, Stiles doesn’t flinch away. The hand rests on the nape of Stiles’ neck, squeezing gently and Stiles’ automatically leans into the touch, craving the comfort that he only seems to get from Derek. He nudges Stiles’ jaw until they’re making eye contact. “Stiles, if I didn’t want you here, I’d have given you the guest room or the couch, okay?”

Stiles nods and tries to swallow past the sudden swelling in his chest. “Okay,” he says and climbs into the bed before he can think too much and psych himself out. The blankets are soft and luxurious and smell so amazing, so much like Derek, that Stiles burrows in immediately, realizing after a second that by smothering his face all over Derek’s pillow, he’s basically rubbing his scent everywhere. He freezes for a second before thinking, fuck it, and lets himself relax.

There’s a clicking sound, then the room plunges into darkness. Stiles knows Derek’s moving from the soft rustling of his clothes, but as usual, his footsteps are silent, so Stiles startles when the bed dips behind him. He doesn’t move, body tense as Derek slides in beside him. Derek lets out of a huff, then there’s a warm arm pulling Stiles back into Derek’s very bare chest. Stiles may or may not let out an extremely manly squeaky sound, but he definitely does. 

“Stiles,” Derek says, his breath ghosting over the back of Stiles’ neck.

“Ye-yeah?” Stiles asks. He wishes his voice wasn’t trembling quite so much but Derek just seems to do that to him. 

Derek pulls him even closer, rubbing his nose behind Stiles’ ear and Stiles swears his heart is going to just give out all together. Derek rubs his hand along Stiles’ sternum, up to his chest before settling over his heart. “Relax, Stiles.”

“Trying,” Stiles grits out. “You’re awfully close there, buddy.”

Derek snorts behind him. “You’re shivering.”

And hey, look at that, he is. “Oh,” Stiles says and yeah, Derek is really, really warm. Hell, he’s been using electric blankets to try to warm himself up and they’ve basically done nothing. But here is Derek, pressed along the line of his back, just radiating heat. He tells himself it’s just a werewolf heating thing and tries to ignore the fact that Scott never manages to warm him up like this. His tension melts away along with his cold, apparently not match for the comfort Derek offers. “Yeah, it’s kinda always like that.”

“Like what?” Derek asks. His voice is soft in the dark, like he knows exactly how hard it is for Stiles to say this at all.

“I can’t get warm, Derek,” Stiles says, the words slipping out of him and god he’s glad he’s facing away from Derek. “It’s like I’m in that ice bath we took and I can take hot showers and load up on blankets and it does nothing.”

Derek’s quiet for a few moments but squeezes him tight, in a bizarre, horizontal parody of a hug. His hand rubs absently across Stiles’ chest, trying to rub warmth back into his core. Bit by bit, Stiles’ body starts to loosen in Derek’s arms, growing pleasantly warm and pliant. 

“Is this helping?” Derek asks.

“Yeah,” Stiles mumbles, blaming the fact that he’s half asleep for nuzzling closer into Derek’s touch. “Hey Derek?”

“Stiles.”

“Thanks for this, well, everything,” Stiles says, sleep making his eyes heavy for the first time in way too long.

Stiles is pretty sure Derek smiles against his neck before saying, “Go to sleep, Stiles.” 

He has a nightmare, because of course he does. Being able to sleep through the night and not embarrass himself in front of Derek would be too much to ask for. But Derek isn’t mad that Stiles wakes him up at ass o’clock in the morning, screaming and shaking and counting his fingers. Stiles is sitting up in bed, thrashing in the blankets, and Derek just grabs Stiles by the shoulder and tells him to breathe. He rubs Stiles’ back and shows him his fingers, letting him count ten over and over until he believes he isn’t in a dream anymore. 

Stiles doesn’t cry because honestly, he doesn’t have enough left in him to cry. He does let Derek hold him, though, and whisper soft, comforting words until he calms down. At one point, he’s not even sure if Derek’s speaking English but he doesn’t care because it’s helping. 

It takes a while, but eventually Stiles stops shaking and has the presence of mind to be embarrassed. He starts to apologize but Derek just shushes him. He pulls Stiles back down until they both are lying on the bed, Stiles pulled tightly to Derek’s chest. He clings to Derek, burying his face in the werewolf’s chest which rumbles under his cheek. One of Derek’s hands moves up and down Stiles’ back and the other squeezes gently at the nape of his neck. It doesn’t matter that Stiles isn’t a wolf, humans need physical comfort, too, and he’s just lucky his wolf friends are so willing to dole it out. He’s not exactly heading back to sleep, mostly dozing in and out when he feels Derek’s scruffy cheek rub against the top of his head, _scenting_ , Stiles briefly thinks. He lets himself be held and starts to finally believe that even though he’ll never be as whole as he was before, he might be less damaged than he thought.

It isn’t exactly a restful night, but Stiles hasn’t had one of those in months and if he’s being honest, spending a night huddled up in Derek’s arms wasn’t exactly a hardship. He’s pulled out of his doze when Derek shifts beneath him, easing his body out from under Stiles’. There’s sun coming in through the windows which seems to offend Derek who stalks over and yanks the curtains closed. For some reason, the fact that Derek Hale has soft, deep purple curtains in his bedroom makes Stiles giggle, incredibly amused.

Derek turns back to him, frowning slightly. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says quietly.

“What time is it?” Stiles asks, stretching his back like a cat. He didn’t miss the way Derek’s eyes followed his body’s movement and if he arches his back a little more than necessary, well, that’s between him and his brain.

“Still early,” Derek answers. 

“I can go,” Stiles says and though the idea of leaving his blanket cocoon sucks, he rolls into a sitting position. 

“You don’t have to,” Derek says easily. He takes a shirt out of his closet and, much to Stiles’ disappointment, pulls it on. 

“You probably got like, zero sleep because of me,” Stiles says, shifting a little uncomfortably. “I should go so you can go back to bed.”

“I’m already up,” Derek says. “Come on, breakfast.”

“Breakfast as in you’re going to make breakfast or breakfast like we’re going out to breakfast?” Stiles asks. “Because I haven’t showered and am probably not fit for the general population.”

Derek rolls his eyes but it’s in that fond way that he seems to be doing lately. “I can make breakfast while you shower. You still have some clothes in the pack dresser in the guest room.”

“I smell that bad, huh?”

“Like roses,” Derek deadpans.

Stiles laughs and that alone shocks him, he isn’t sure the last time he genuinely laughed. And it wasn’t even funny, it was just a dumb, clichéd joke but it was from _Derek_ and Stiles is just so damn amused. Derek’s smiling softly though, like he knows what Stiles is thinking. Derek clasps Stiles’ shoulder as he walks out of the bedroom, leaving Stiles alone. 

Derek Hale is making him breakfast. Derek Hale is making him breakfast after he held Stiles through a nightmare, and made him laugh, and found him in the middle of the forest by his heartbeat alone. Stiles feels a little stupid that he makes it about five minutes into his shower before realizing that there’s warmth pooling in his chest. He slips and almost falls under the spray when it dawns on him that he’s feeling something besides emptiness and permanent anxiety. He can’t say he’s happy because he isn’t, not quite, but he isn’t hollow either. He’s comfortable. He’s comfortable at Derek’s, he knows Derek isn’t going to hurt him and he’s beginning to believe he won’t hurt Derek. It’s not amazing, but it’s a start.

He’s still slightly marveling at his new emotional state when he walks into the kitchen to the heart-stopping sight of Derek wearing an apron with a little cartoon wolf wearing a chef hat on the front. It had been a gag gift from Stiles, something he’d seen and had absolutely had to buy. Derek had smirked slightly and after that, Stiles assumed he’d tossed it, but here he was in the loft’s kitchen, shoveling French toast and bacon onto two plates and wearing that ridiculous wolf apron. He looks up and smiles when Stiles gets farther into the kitchen. Stiles actually gives a small smile back, surprised that it isn’t even forced. Derek’s eye widen slightly and nostrils flare.

“What?” Stiles asks.

Derek shrugs, and for a second, Stiles thinks he isn’t going to answer, then Derek says, “You smell better.”

“Well, yeah dude. I showered.”

Derek shakes his head. “It’s not that. It’s hard to explain. You know about chemosignals, right?”

“Sure,” Stiles says. “Chemicals that give off scents of emotion, right?”

“Basically,” Derek says. “You smell different.”

Stiles shifts a bit uncomfortably. “Bad different?”

“Good different,” Derek says. He sets the plates down on the kitchen table and sits, motioning for Stiles to join him. He doesn’t talk again until Stiles sits down. “You’ve smelled like you, but there was something sour over it. You smell better, like it’s thinning.” Derek shoves a huge bite of French toast into his mouth, as if to stop himself from saying more.

“I feel better,” Stiles says slowly. He cuts up his French toast, his favorite, he idly thinks, of course Derek knows that. “Not, you know, good. But I think maybe I’m getting there?”

“Good,” Derek says. He slides a glass of orange juice across the table to Stiles.

“Is it?” Stiles asks. Derek just raises an eyebrow, Derek-speak for telling him to go on. “It’s not like I _deserve_ to feel better. It’s like I’m insulting them and forgetting them and forgetting all I did and everything that’s ruined because of me, I-“

A piece of bacon hits Stiles in the face, abruptly cutting off his rant. Derek smirks. “No self-deprecation at the breakfast table,” he says.

“Dude…did you just hit me in the face with bacon?” Stiles asks, staring dumbstruck. “ _And_ make a joke? I specifically recall saying that will only happen in the case of an apocalypse with pigs literally flying, which considering what we’ve dealt with, is possible.”

Derek shrugs and takes another bite, smug smirk still in place. “Well it was a bacon, so technically, pigs did fly.”

Stiles stares at Derek, completely gobsmacked, before bursting into laughter. He doubles over, trying to clutch at his side while simultaneously wiping tears from his eyes. It’s like the dam has burst, and he needs to make up for all the laughter he’s missed over the last few months. He hits his head on the table, trying to calm down but for some reason that makes him laugh even harder, like now that he can finally laugh again, everything is suddenly a thousand times funnier.

By the time Stiles calms down, which actually takes a little longer than he expected, Derek is staring at him, and obviously trying not to look like he’s staring, and he looks proud and happy. Stiles clears his throat and looks back down at his breakfast, flushing a little.

“So,” Stiles says. “Thanks for breakfast. Didn’t know you could cook.”

“Despite what you say, I’m not a caveman, Stiles,” Derek says, raising an eyebrow. 

“You have progressed past grunts,” Stiles concedes. He swishes the orange juice around his cup, trying to organize his thoughts in a way that wouldn’t make Derek thump him on the back of the head. “I’m finishing today.”

“Finishing?” Derek asks, though Stiles can tell he knows exactly what he means.

“I’m going to Oak Creek,” Stiles says, bracing himself for Derek’s explosive reaction, but it never comes. He just lets out a long breath and runs a hand over his face before leveling a look across the table that Stiles can’t read. That makes him a little nervous. He’s pretty fluent in Derekese, but he has no idea what Derek’s thinking. “I know you think it’s a bad idea but I need to. I don’t think I can start grieving until I do. I think…I think it’ll help.”

Derek stares for a few more moments before nodding. He stands, takes Stiles’ dirty dishes and dumps them in the sink. Stiles can’t think of a time when Derek left dishes without washing them. He said it makes the loft smell bad. “Okay,” he finally says.

“Okay?” 

“Okay,” Derek repeats. Before Stiles can ask for clarification, Derek’s pulling on his leather jacket and tossing over Stiles’ sweatshirt. “Let’s go.”

“Let’s…what?” Stiles asks.

“If you’re doing this, you’re not doing this alone,” Derek says simply. He stands by the loft door, looking at Stiles expectantly with his eyebrows raised.

Stiles stares for longer than is strictly appropriate. “You don’t have to,” he mumbles. Part of him really hopes Derek lets him go, but the larger part really wants Derek with him. Derek’s already seen him at his worst, it’s not like it could get worse. And yeah, he could admit it, Derek was pretty damn good at the comforting thing, which was not something he ever thought he would say.

“I know I don’t have to,” Derek says. “I want to. And I’m going to.”

Stiles just nods, sure the relief is written all over his face. “Let’s take your car,” Stiles says. “Just in case.” _In case I can’t drive_. Derek just nods and leads Stiles out.

The drive to Oak Creek feels a lot shorter than it is. Stiles can’t decide if that’s good thing or not. It gave him less time to freak himself out, but less time to prepare himself, too. He’s torn between thanking Derek for his blatant disregard for traffic laws, and smacking him. By the time the pull up to Oak Creek, he’s shaking a bit again, a fine tremor running through him. There’s no one around, which doesn’t surprise Stiles. Why would people want to visit one of the places that housed one of the most horrible, perverse acts in the entire country? Why indeed.

Derek takes Stiles’ hand when they’re out of the car. His palm in warm, fingers tight around Stiles’ hand. He doesn’t push Stiles to do anything, just stands there with him until he decides to move. It could have been ten minutes, it could have been an hour, but Stiles finally moves forward, keeping his death grip on Derek’s hand. Derek’s thumb runs over Stiles’ knuckles, rubbing soothing circles in response to his racing heart. 

The gate at the back of Oak Creek is open because even vandals don’t want to come here anymore. Stiles can’t suppress a shiver when they cross onto the property. Derek grips his hand tighter. Each step is harder, Stiles’ feet getting heavier and heavier. By the time they make it to the spot where Allison died, Stiles’ breath is coming in short bursts and his nails are drawing blood from Derek’s skin. Derek doesn’t move to pull away, just squeezes Stiles’ hand back in support. 

He isn’t sure what he expected, but a dark copper stained dirt wasn’t high on the list. The police had taken as much as they could for evidence or whatever, and a cleanup team was supposed to take care of the rest, but they didn’t seem to have tried very hard. Stiles makes a mental note to talk to his dad about the county’s cleanup company contracting. He’s sure Derek can still smell the blood.

Stiles doesn’t remember letting go of Derek’s hand, but he must have because he’s sitting on the ground, legs having collapsed under him. His heaving breaths give way to huge, wracking sobs, finally able to cry. His eyes blur with tears enough that he can barely see the brown stain in front of him, and for some reason that makes him cry harder. It’s Allison, part of Allison staining the earth, leaving an imprint of her in the wrong way, how she died instead of how she lived. It’s like she’s just a number, just another tally mark on the Oak Creek death count. Fuck, he misses her. Derek’s hands find his shoulders, gripping tight like he’s afraid that Stiles will float away if he lets go. Stiles is kind of scared of that, too. 

“She deserved better,” Stiles gasps. He’s hunched in on himself, knees aching from his fall to the ground, but after everything, he thinks he’s due for a little discomfort. 

Derek seems to disagree and slowly draws the pain from him, running his fingers lightly over the skin on the back of Stiles’ neck instead of trying to pull him up. He lets Stiles have this. He doesn’t say anything either, just listens as Stiles sobs out random words and half sentences that don’t make any sense. 

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Stiles says when he doesn’t feel like he’s about to fly apart anymore. “She was supposed to, I don’t know, go to the fucking Olympics or something. She should have left Beacon Hills as soon as she got here.”

“There are a lot of shoulds,” Derek says softly. “My parents should be celebrating their 35 year anniversary. Laura should have gone to college.” Stiles nodded quickly, because of course Derek understands him, understands loss. 

“Your mom should be here to hold your hand and help you pick out colleges,” Derek continues.

Stiles closes his eyes and leans back into Derek, letting his words ground him.

“You should never have even had to know what a nogitsune is.”

He’s completely out of tears but he kind of wishes he had some left. Because Derek makes sense. He gives a hollow laugh. “So, shit happens, right? Should just accept it?”

“There are things that happen that are out of our control,” Derek corrects. “We don’t have to like them, or roll over for them and accept it, but we need to acknowledge that it wasn’t our fault. The-the fire wasn’t my fault.” 

Stiles takes a sharp intake of breath and turns, letting Derek help him to his feet. He searches Derek’s face but he doesn’t see any sign of a lie. It makes him feel a little lighter, honestly.

“And none of this was your fault,” Derek says. He grabs Stiles’ face when he tries to turn away and forces him to meet his eyes. “You’re annoyingly able to read me better than anyone else in the pack. Tell me if I’m lying. No one blames you for this. We just want you back with us.”

Stiles is sure Derek can hear his heart and probably smell every emotion coursing through him like a kaleidoscope, but Stiles doesn’t care, because Derek isn’t lying. Derek is 100% telling him the truth. He wouldn’t believe it from anyone else, not his Scott or Dad because no matter what he’s been through, they will always try to shield him, not Kira or Lydia because he doesn’t want their pity. But Derek doesn’t lie to him and, like Derek said, Stiles would notice if he did. 

Stiles glances back behind him at Oak Creek, where the nogitsune tormented Lydia, where it ripped the Oni from Yoshiko’s control and used them to murder Allison. Chaos. No one’s fault. Not his, not Yoshiko’s or the Oni’s, not anyone but the nogitsune’s.

“No one’s fault,” Stiles says quietly, looking back at Derek. He doesn’t believe it all the way, because he knows he’s going to live with some measure of guilt for his whole life, just like Derek, even if he intellectually knows it isn’t his fault. Maybe Derek can get Stiles in contact with the werewolf therapist he mentioned awhile back.

Derek looks over Stiles’ shoulder, taking in the dilapidated and crumbling building. “We good?”

Stiles doesn’t turn to look. “Yeah, we’re good.”

Stiles can’t exactly say he feels _good_ , or hopeful, or any sudden magical shift back to who he was before, but he feels something. He lets himself feel something, and when Derek leads him back to the Camaro, suggesting a drive to the coast for some air, he decides to let Derek help him.


End file.
